


Wedding-Night Reprise

by wheel_of_fish



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Fluff, PWP, Smut, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 13:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_of_fish/pseuds/wheel_of_fish
Summary: Nightfall drives the newlyweds to bed a second time. This time, though, will be different.





	Wedding-Night Reprise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparklyscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyscorpion/gifts).

> Written by request, and approximately twice its intended length because I couldn't help myself.

They dressed for bed separately: Raoul in his robe, Christine in her lace-trimmed peignoir, and nothing beneath either garment. 

For clothing, as the newlyweds had found the night before, further complicated what was already a nuanced act. Divesting each other of suit and wedding gown, respectively, had been thrilling enough, but the subsequent anatomy lesson perhaps less so. 

Tonight, however, there would be new contours to map—new regions to explore. 

They stood facing each other from opposite sides of the bed. Christine’s peignoir was sheer, and the low gaslight outlined curves Raoul had scarcely glimpsed the night before amid a dark, stunted tangle of bedcovers. His jaw went slack. 

He should have met her in the middle, in the bed, but his desire to part that peignoir like a curtain superseded any rational thought. Instead he circled the foot of the bed at a calculated speed, gaze fixed on the shadowed shapes beneath sheer ivory cotton: two perfect buds at the slope of her breast, and farther down, a deep, soft V. She stayed still, wide eyes tracking his every move.

It seemed an eternity before he reached her. “Christine,” he whispered, fingering the overlap of silk trim at her breast. “May I?”

Her breath hitched, and she nodded.

He gave a deft pull and untied the sash at her waist. The garment loosened, but it did not fall open. With a gentle hand on either side of her collarbone, he slid the fabric apart and over her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of gauze. 

For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

She was all softness and dewy skin, a golden nymph plucked straight from her woodland oasis to stand bare before him—and he, he was a mere mortal, unworthy to touch her.

Yet he had had her the night before. Memory and renewed anticipation made him almost giddy, such that he struggled to maintain composure. At his silence, her bashful gaze fell to the floor.

He was quick to lift her chin with a gentle finger. “You are exquisite,” he breathed, and when joy flared in her eyes he kissed her: softly at first, then more urgently, her mouth his only source of sustenance in that moment.

* * *

It still surprised and thrilled her, that anyone should desire her so intensely. Her toes curled at the press of his lips, and a tiny moan escaped her throat when his warm hand palmed her breast. Fingers massaged and kneaded the supple flesh; a thumb brushed against the sensitive tip, and she bucked into his hand before pulling back.

She desired more.

Her hand found the sash of his robe. “May I?” she whispered.

Now it was his turn to nod. As she undressed him, his eyes blazed in an expression she had never seen on him before: wondrous, unequivocal lust. The dressing-gown fell to the floor, and her breath caught to see his arousal. 

Difficult as it was, she trained her gaze on his face. “Now what?” she asked, flashing a nervous half-smile.

Hesitantly, he pulled one of her hands to the hard length of him, questioning her with a look. She nodded. He began to move her curled fingers up and down that flesh both silken and unyielding, his weighed breaths causing heat to pool between her legs. He wrapped her fist even tighter, tighter than she would have thought possible, and when she continued the movements unassisted, there came a strangled sound from his throat as though he might cease to breathe entirely. Finally, he stilled her hand and kissed her again, harder now, before hoisting her onto the bed.

Heart thumping wildly, she lay back against the pillow, unsure where to look as he half-straddled her. His mouth descended again, this time burning a trail from her lips to her chin, down to her throat and sternum. Meanwhile, his hands roamed indiscriminately across breast and hip and thigh. Her skin was aflame, and she could scarcely breathe in anticipation of what he might do next. 

* * *

His mouth reached her abdomen, eliciting a delighted squeal as the muscles contracted beneath his touch. “Oh, it tickles,” she gasped.

He smiled against her skin. There would be plenty of time in which to discover the extent of her ticklishness—a discovery he fully intended to make—but now was not that time. 

Now was the time for what he had been too cowardly to attempt last night.

Philippe had implied the existence of a magical location that sent women into throes of ecstasy, but if it existed, well—Raoul had not found it yet. Nor would he ever, if he did not so much as try. 

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, and as he cupped her between her legs, her eyes widened with the realization of what he meant to do. He stretched upward and kissed her as a means of reassurance.

Down below, his fingers found warm, clefted skin. They traced a path down its center, around the edges, mapping each tender fold until they located the now-familiar opening that sent sparks straight to his groin to find, and as he dipped one finger in he continued to kiss her, swallowing a soft whimper that seemed meant to encourage him. 

He lingered there, his hand performing the actions his hips strained to replicate. As he worked his finger in and out, the warmth around it grew slicker, urging him on. The kissing deepened. On a whim, he withdrew to trail his hand upward, and she bucked and gasped beneath him.

He froze. “Christine?” he asked. “Are you—did I—?”

She blinked up at him, eyes glassy with exhilaration. “Again, please,” came her whispered plea.

He returned his hand to the apex of her thighs. There was a small bud of flesh there, and when he touched it, she gasped again.

PerhapsPhilippe had been right after all. 

Raoul stroked her there, finding a rhythm, watching in stunned silence as she writhed beneath him. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her bottom lip caught in her teeth. Said lip was released as her mouth fell open in wordless, fevered anticipation.

Christine let out a lusty, desperate cry, hips bucking off the mattress entirely. He kept his position as best he could, but soon she was quivering beneath his hand, panting, with legs clenched, and he thought he knew that sensation all too well—from the night before, certainly, but also from endless lonely nights in his own company.

At last he was treated to her shaky laughter, and he grinned. 

* * *

He kissed her some more. She was sated, yet she was not. 

In their symphony of lovemaking, her triumphant climax had merely been a part of his crescendo, a fact confirmed when his grin faltered at the sight of her newly prostrate form. Gently, he moved in and spread her legs. 

As strange as the sensation still was, she felt a heady relief when he finally pushed into her. There was no shock of pleasure here as there had been at the touch of his hand, yet it was better somehow, more complete—and as he leaned forward to plant a hand on either side of her torso, she wrapped her arms around him to draw him in. He rocked against her, his shoulder muscles flexing beneath her grip.

The angle of his hips put pressure where she had experienced pleasure just moments before. Perhaps she could achieve pleasure this way, too? It would be a worthy exploration the following night.

Or perhaps even now.

She hooked her legs around him, angling her hips in closer, and was rewarded with a hitch in his breath. He moved faster and faster, and with exhilaration practically bursting from her chest she clung to him until he stopped, a strangled cry tearing from his throat, hips locking into hers with one final jolt.

She could not have said how long they remained stationary, still joined, bodies silently quaking. She ran her hands up and down his shoulders, his back: all of it unfamiliar, yet all of it whispering _home._

He took her into his arms, or she took him into hers, and they slept. 


End file.
